


cold dirt, rocks and else

by orphan_account



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-03
Updated: 2010-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:33:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account





	cold dirt, rocks and else

The truth of the matter was that in reality, Johnny and Stéphane hadn't talked for ages, no matter what he kept telling the press and fans and whoever else asked how they were getting on. Yes, they'd known each other forever. But that didn't mean anything. Hell, even his mom and his brother had questioned him on all aspects of this and he'd always figured they should know him well enough to know this: he just couldn't care less what Stéphane did or did not do.

That was the reason why he'd not known or asked if Stéphane was staying or going or training at NJ or what it was he was actually doing at Johnny's rink. Not that Johnny was posessive. He just didn't care, one way or the other. He had to focus, he had a destination to reach, a mission, so to speak, and everything else was plain distraction he couldn't afford. So all in all, it was no wonder he didn't find out that Stéphane was going to train under Victor for the foreseeable future until his cell started going mad.

After the third exasperated "I don't _care_ " he'd replied to various questions and insinuations, he'd given up and made up some story.

Appently, he wasn't the only one of like mind, since Stéphane didn't open communication channels with him either. Stéphane seemed to be glad to let things rest the way they were and comment on his side of things and otherwise focus on _his_ business. Just like Johnny had hoped he would.

But then, Stéphane flew over for a week or two before they would be off for Dreams and suddenly, Johnny realized that he _didn't know Stéphane at all_. Which, as he then found out, had maybe not been that good a thing after all, because not caring had, by omission, made him agree to Stéphane's coach switch, and now, he had to actually deal with the guy.

And said guy was not at all what everyone made him out to be, in terms of politeness, quite reserve and temper - or rather, the lack of it.

So it all started with the fact that Johnny was in a bad mood on the Monday they - surprisingly - met at the rink for what was (unannounced) going to be their first practice together.

The bad mood, incidentally, stemmed from Galina presenting him with a new round-about training schedule and regime overall for the coming summer and season; it wasn't pretty. There were a lot of extra-curricular activies in those, ranging from taking random walks in the vicinity of the town to work-outs in a nearby gym. Real work-outs. With machines and such. And biking. Not something that put Johnny in a good mood, and he was still grumbling about it when he hit the changing rooms.

It didn't help that it was Stéphane's fault that he had to go through all those changes now. He'd heard about the way Stéphane prepared for the skating. The influence was unmistakable.

"What are you doing here?" was the first intelligent thing that came to his mind as he put his things down, giving the other man a hostile look. What could he say. He was surprised to even see him there, never mind getting ready for practice.

Stéphane didn't seem fazed in the slightest. He smirked. "If you don't know what someone undressing looks like, I feel a little sorry for you."

Johnny's glare intensified. "I didn't mean in the changing room in particular, I meant at the rink. I'm not aware you've got training scheduled already."

"I'm not surprised," Stéphane said, rather calm for someone faced with Johnny's wrath. "With the amount of interest you show for your surroundings, I'm not sure you'd notice an earthquake if it happened right beneath you."

Johnny stared, open-mouthed. "Screw you," he finally managed, rather unoriginal, caught, again, by surprise.

"Hm-hm," Stéphane shrugged. "If at some point, you manage to look past the tip of your own nose, we can talk about that." And he grabbed his skates and marched out, hips swaggering sensually.

Johnny stared some more, then clicked his teeth together, closing his mouth. Rage had been a scarce emotion as of late, but it was slowly rising to the surface, bubbling dangerously. If that was how Stéphane wanted to play it, he wouldn't catch Johnny off guard again. Johnny ripped his bag open and started taking out his training clothes with more force than was strictly necessary. His face still held an appealing reddish tinge.

 

~*~

 

It wasn't Johnny's fault Stéphane had more than a few accidents on the ice that day; Johnny had a bit experience sabotaging other skaters' training sessions from his early junior years, and he'd always been good at making it appear like he had nothing at all to do with some strange event that just happened to occur while he was around. It was the puppy eyes. Even Galina wasn't immune to them, though Johnny had a feeling Victor got a lot of practice by ways of daughter, so it was never working as well on him as it should.

Still, skating to cross Stéphane's practice patterns was a good way of retribution. At least until Stéphane started to sabotage right back with a determined light in his eyes that told Johnny exactly how much he saw right through the ploy. He wasn't taking it lying down. Johnny had to grudgingly respect that. For someone who was so out of his natural habitat, he sure was adapting fast.

By the end of the session, they were figuratively killing each other with daggers out of respective eyes. It was so obvious it didn't escape neither of their coaches. Galina and Victor exchanged a glance and took them both aside.

"Is this going to be a problem?" Victor pointed his hand from him to Stéphane as they stood, facing each other as little as physically possible without turning their backs to each other.

Johnny raised his chin and muttered, "I didn't start."

Stéphane gave a snort.

Victor sighed, resigned. "It's going to be a problem."

"Is this going to end in team-building exercises?" Stéphane quipped. There was a definite tone of amusement in his voice.

"Actually," Galina said, "that's not a bad idea."

"He was joking," Johnny said quickly. "He was so totally joking."

Victor rolled his eyes. "Do your exercises off the ice, both of you," he said, "and we'll see you in the afternoon." When Johnny opened his mouth, he added, "For separate sessions. We need to do some individual training without you trying to cut short the other's space." He gave them stern looks. "Both of you."

Johnny could read the "He started it" off Stéphane's lips when he glanced over at the other skater, and narrowed his eyes. Stéphane's lips curled up in a smug smile.

"Separate exercises," Galina interrupted their wordless exchange. "Go on."

Stéphane's smile didn't change, so Johnny turned on his heel and went first. Bastard.

 

~*~

 

Johnny arrived in the afternoon just as Stéphane was taking off his skates, clearly frustrated about something. His expression showed that he was mad at himself, inwardly punishing himself for a problem that still was bothering him from his session. When he heard Johnny step in, however, he pulled the expression off like a second skin, substituting it for a careless, slightly mocking mask.

"What?" Johnny asked, wary.

"Nothing."

"Really." The word dripped with scorn.

Stéphane's voice was smooth like honey. "There's no need to sulk, you know," he said.

"I'm not," Johnny replied, hard-pressed not to bitch-slap the smile off his face. "Or if I were, it would have nothing to do with you."

"Really." Stéphane copied Johnny's exact tone from before, only injected it with a hint more amusement.

Johnny shook his head. Time to step up the game, he then decided. He'd had enough. "I don't know what your problem is," he said, fighting not to let his irritation show, "but in case you're under any kind of delusion: I don't care about you. About you being here, about you doing your - your stupid alpha male thing or whatever it is that you're doing."

Stéphane grinned. "Alpha male thing?"

"Shut up," Johnny groused. "You know what I mean."

"I don't think so. Why don't you explain it to me?"

"Why are you trying to get a rise out of me?" Johnny asked, throwing his hands up. "Do you want me to bitch you out until you're crying or something?" He cocked his hip to the side, putting his hand on it. "Because I can do that, you know. I can totally reduce you to a whimpering ball of Swiss tears."

Stéphane snorted. "I'd like to see you try."

"You're just an attention-whore, trying to get me to notice you," Johnny countered.

"Is it working?"

"No."

"It totally is, isn't it."

"No. Why would I - I don't even - shut up. You're not getting a rise out of me with your stupid little maneuvers." He gave a serene smile. "I'm so above it." He'd have added a sing-song of superiority if he hadn't thought that might be a bit much.

Stéphane nodded, then pointed at the far wall's clock. "Also, you're kind of late."

Johnny paled. " _Shit_."

 

~*~

 

"Shopping is _so_ not a team-building exercise," Johnny said the next day, glaring at the list of things Victor had handed out to him with an austere remainder not to forget anything or there would be no dinner for them. "Especially when it's shopping for food."

Stéphane hummed and bit into a strawberry. "I disagree," he said after swallowing, lips still wetly red from the fruit's juice. "These are ridiculously good. Can we get some?"

Johnny swore and pushed their cart towards the vegetable section.

"Spoilsport," Stéphane muttered after him. Johnny clenched his teeth together in an act of sheer willpower.

 

~*~

 

They had the chicken, the vegetables, the ingredients for the dessert. Johnny scanned the list one more time.

"I can't believe it takes you two hours to buy a handful of items," Stéphane commented innocently.

"One more word from you," Johnny glared, "and you're getting eviscerated. And I've been told that it's a painful and long-winded procedure."

Stéphane made the universal gesture for locking his mouth with a key and throwing it away. Johnny glared him into submission and went on to find the section of the grocery store that held the last and final item on their list, bread and the like.

"I swear," he muttered on the way, "if they have us do one more such thing, I'm changing coaches."

"Don't be a baby," Stéphane smirked. "Admit it, you enjoy spending time with me. It's so much more entertaining than sitting at home, staring at your panties, wishing to get laid."

"I do not - how do you even _get_ these sick ideas? And didn't I promise you some torturous consequences if you broke that silence -?"

"Oh, look," Stéphane pointed. "They have bananas on sale." He gave Johnny a sly look. "Sure you don't need a few of those for recreational purposes?"

Johnny took a melon from the stand and threw it at his head. He was shit out of luck, though, because Stéphane had excellent reflexes and managed to catch it and throw it back, aiming a good bit lower than Johnny had, the cheat.

 

~*~

 

It was a test of wills, Johnny was almost sure by the end of the first week, and if he hadn't miscalculated, he was steadily losing. Not even his snark had a way to deal with this newly-acquitted disturbance in his life, and that was... unusual.

"Stupid, silly, boneheaded, preposterous, crack-brained son of a lemming and a guinea pig," he muttered as he watched from the side-area of the rink where he was waiting for Galina to arrive. He wasn't late this time, at least. Stéphane was on the ice, talking to one of the many girls who practiced at the rink sometimes.

He was doing rather more than talking too, or maybe these days talking included touching your conversational partner's hips with your hands and tracing their upper arms with your fingers and leaning so close you could practically smell their breath on your cheeks. Johnny looked away, furious at his own thoughts and the fact that his dick was getting a bit hard from watching them interact.

Two minutes later, Stéphane was climbing off the ice and stepping into the area where Johnny was standing, still waiting, still pointedly ignoring him.

"Someone's in a mood," he grinned, that unfathomable, smug one that always managed to drive Johnny up the walls.

Johnny put his elbows up and didn't look at him. At all.

"Sulking again?"

"I'm not sulking," Johnny snapped.

Stéphane tuned the grin down a notch. "What's this, then?" He still sounded amused. He seemed constantly amused by Johnny, no matter what Johnny did, or said, or how he acted. It was like Johnny was one big source of constant amusement for him, like there was nothing Johnny could do to invoke _back_ in Stéphane the feelings the other boy conjured up in him.

"None of your business," Johnny said. He turned towards him finally, narrowing his eyes and glaring. "Look, it's got nothing to do with you. Not everything revolves around you, or has anything to do with you, so, you know. Fuck off. Do whatever it is you do in your spare time."

Stéphane raised his eyebrows, challenged. "You really are pissed. What brought that on?"

"Oh, I don't know," Johnny snapped. "Let me think. Maybe your attitude? Could that be? Possibly?"

Stéphane raised his eyebrows.

"Don't give me that fucking look," Johnny said. "You know exactly what I mean."

"Why don't we talk about that later," Stéphane proposed, giving him a speculative look. "After you're finished. I'll go run a few miles outside. We can talk when we're both done. Everyone else will have left by then anyway."

"There's nothing to talk about," Johnny brushed him off.

"Oh, I think there's plenty," Stéphane corrected him, crowding him in, and Johnny hadn't noticed he'd come closer, hadn't even seen him taking the steps to cross the distance. He was emitting warmth like an oven, and his forehead was sweaty, a drop lingering above his upper lip, ready to splatter onto the ground at a single move. He could feel himself warm all over in response, could feel his body's desire to mesh them together, close the distance, and Stéphane gave him a half-grin, eyes sparkling like he'd expected this.

Which only managed to make Johnny all the more furious. "Stéphane -" he managed.

Galina appeared behind Stéphane, frowning. "Johnny, what are you still doing here, on the ice," she commanded.

Stéphane let him go - didn't need to, Johnny reminded himself, he didn't have Johnny in shackles, after all. And didn't that image make a shiver run down his spine. He ignored it, didn't even look back as he brushed against him on his way to the ice and Stéphane's expression in that moment was lost to him. But he could just imagine it, imagined it, in fact, exactly the way he wanted it. It was very satisfying.

 

~*~

 

When Stéphane had said he wanted to 'talk', nowhere in that equation had Johnny actually featured in the variable that 'talk' equaled getting fucked against the changing room wall at his training rink.

Well, technically, he wasn't _yet_ getting fucked, but it was a close call.

He didn't even remember how it'd started out, except for Stéphane being in the process of pulling off a drenched t-shirt when Johnny entered, exhausted, legs hurting, arms hurting, back twinging in pain. He couldn't feel that pain now, not by far. Stéphane, he decided, might yet actually be good for something.

But back a few minutes ago, Johnny had let some snarky comment fly how Stéphane didn't need to drop his clothes for Johnny's attention just yet, and Stéphane had replied in kind, as he always did, eyes glittering with challenge as he'd said something about Johnny's innuendo needing as much of a brush-up as his sex-life. It had gone down-hill from there, resulting in Johnny demanding if he was offering to do that brush-up, then, and Stéphane, grinning ferally, saying he was looking forward to it.

And then he'd grabbed Johnny's hips - like the girl from before, Johnny noticed, but less gentle, with less care, almost like he didn't give a damn about bruises his fingers would leave on Johnny's skin, like he would enjoy seeing them there, a mark of sort, placed by him. He'd pushed Johnny back against one of the walls - dirty, maybe, Johnny thought disgusted, who knew how many people had touched and done who-knew-what to them - and then his mouth had covered Johnny's in a heated kiss, hands still in place, leg sliding between Johnny's, pushing up, up, brushing his hardening dick.

Johnny moaned into the kiss, opening his mouth wider, and Stéphane didn't hesitate for a second, plunged in, tongue searching out Johnny's and touching, pulsing like the blood through his veins, the blood Johnny could almost feel rushing as his heart pumped. He was a little smaller, not much, but just enough to not have to bend his knees more than an inch to get the full impact of Stéphane's thigh pressing fully against his crotch, and then he rubbed up, up and against it, harder, faster, rubbing himself to full arousal.

Stéphane's right hand left his hip, wandered beneath Johnny's shirt, over his waist and up his side, thumb caressing the outline of his ribcage, and then he was atop Johnny's chest, stroking his nipple and Johnny's hips bucked into Stéphane's once more, his head hitting the wall at his back, neck straining further into the kiss.

It tasted like blood, slightly metallic, possibly from when Johnny'd bitten down on Stéphane's lip hard, making him jerk, a delicious, savory second of pure body-contact that had made him melt on the inside, turning his stomach into liquid heat. He hated the feeling of his zipper pressed into his groin, of Stéphane's sweat-pants screeching against his own practice gear, a battle of cloth. At least, he thanked the gods for that small favor, Stéphane's shirt was actually off and they didn't have to play around with that more than necessary. He let his hands wander up and down his back, over strong shoulder blades, and then down his spine again, towards the waistband of his pants, slipping underneath, cupping Stéphane's ass over his boxershorts.

Stéphane seperated their mouths with a smacking sound, tongue leaving Johnny's mouth, a painful loss to which Johnny admitted by making a small, crooning noise in the back of his throat. But then he realized what Stéphane was doing, hand leaving his hot skin to grasp at Johnny's wrist.

"No," he said, staring into Johnny's eyes. "Not today."

Johnny narrowed his eyes. "What, you too much of a guy to get fucked by me -?" he started, interrupted by an impatient growl out of Stéphane's mouth, a sound so unexpected it stopped him in mid-sentence.

"I said," Stéphane repeated, "not today. This is enough for today. Next time." He panted a bit, gaze still boring into Johnny's. "Preferably in your apartment, preferably against some kind of flat surface, you're welcome to put your dick in me as long and often as you please."

Johnny gasped at the jolt that went through him at the words, the mental pictures they sparkled in his mind, unable to keep up with the fantasies that suddenly sprouted, dozens of different possibilities, positions, ways to fuck around. Stéphane was right, he realized. They had time.

"Fine," he said, breathless. "Fine."

Stéphane gave him a lopsided grin. "Knew you'd see it my way."

"Your hand. My dick. Now," Johnny snarled back, not willing to put up with the game.

"You're - ah, awfully demanding. For someone - in your position," Stéphane commented, before letting go of Johnny's wrist and deliberately taking his time to grasp his zipper and pull it down, tooth by tooth, freeing Johnny's cock inch by inch.

"And what - position - would that - be?" Johnny asked, glaring, grasping the back of his neck for support. Stéphane's thigh was still between his legs, still administering just the right amount of pressure to make a jarring of pure pleasure run through his nervous system at the slightest motion.

"The one right underneath me, of course," Stéphane smirked, and accentuated his words by sliding his hand into Johnny's underwear, timely cutting off any reply his words might have elicited.

"Fuck," Johnny swore, arching his back into the touch, towards it, wanting more of it, aching for a harder grip, for the movement he anticipated to finally start. "You're such a fucking tease," he managed to pant out in between drawn breaths.

"Never noticed," Stéphane said, and he almost, almost didn't sound stressed out at all. But all the grating and moaning and the little groaning sighs escaping Johnny's mouth while he squirmed against Stéphane were taking its toll and not even Stéphane seemed unfazed by it all, sweat covering his body again, pupils dilated in ecstasy.

"Move," Johnny urged. "Just -"

Stéphane did. His fingers were strong and capable and he didn't know Johnny's favorite spots or movements yet, had no idea yet which touches would please him, which would increase the seemingly never-ending bursts of energy ripping through his body, up and down his spine, but he did very well by pure instinct, rubbing the tip with his thumb first, playing with clever tugs and pulls until he had Johnny whimpering. Then he finally closed his fist around his cock and jerked up and back down, starting off a slow, tantalizing rhythm.

Johnny was singing a mantra of swear words into his ear until Stéphane remembered and instead of breathing harshly into his neck or hair, lifted his chin, tensed his neck and re-found Johnny's mouth, joining them once again if not yet in body then definitely by way of lips and tongues, tasting, exploring; quelling Johnny's now muffled echoes of enjoyment.

While Stéphane was jerking him off, touching and rubbing up against his body in a manner that was marginally familiar from high school days of innocuous touching, Johnny rode his touches like he was walking on waves, rutting against him, deperate for more contact, more intimacy. Then Stéphane did something with his wrist, a flicker of his hand and Johnny felt his knees give way, would have slid down the wall if he hadn't been held up with Stéphane's body and legs, supporting him. He was on the brink of orgasm, close enough to tip over by the slightest provocation, something Stéphane knew, and exploited immediately like the figure skater he was.

It was all in reading the body language, Johnny knew. He was being pathetically open about what he needed right now, too, which helped matters immensely. He got a last taste of Stéphane's mouth and tongue before they parted again and Stéphane leaned over him, wet lips close to his ear, licking at his earlobe before he said, "Sometime soon, I'm getting to get up my fingers up your ass, too, right?"

And Johnny felt his whole body spasm as orgasm hit, another set of images, different ones from before, images of Stéphane turning him over, licking him open, forcing his fingers inside him, fucking him, hard and impatient. They hit his brain, overload complete, and he came all over Stéphane's hand, and over his pants, gasping for air, moaning at the added stimulation when Stéphane didn't stop moving his hand over his cock, just kept going all through the orgasm.

It took a moment for Johnny to realize it was over, his mind needing a while longer to catch up with the fact that he was propped back up against the wall, with Stéphane's body covering his, sticky hand glued back at Johnny's hip where it had started out. And Stéphane's dick still hard against his stomach.

The weight of his own limbs pulled him down; this time Stéphane didn't protest as Johnny made his way on his knees, taking a gulp of breath before he looked up, huge-eyed and uncertain, vulnerable. He almost never was, but this was kind of a new situation. There wasn't exactly a protocol for after-handjob mannerism.

Stéphane didn't seem to be all that puffed-up as he'd been before all this had happened, either. And, Johnny noted with a feeling of satisfaction, no trace of amusement in sight. Stéphane's face was completely laid bare, desire and disbelief warring.

"I'll suck you off," Johnny said, hoarse. "If you want."

"Want?" Stéphane snorted. "I'm - hah, I'm so hard I'm going to - come at first touch. J-just so you - know. But yeah - if - if you want." He didn't seem very mentally stable or able to control what he said or felt. Not that Johnny blamed him. He'd been in pretty much the same befuddled state just a few minutes ago.

"Bitch," Johnny muttered, smiling a bit. "Not like you deserve it."

Stéphane glowered down at him. Johnny's smile widened, looking up, and Stéphane groaned. Johnny had his weapons of mass-destruction, too. Especially when he was lazily well-fucked and could use the eyelashes to his advantage.

The rest of it went pretty fast, almost, as Johnny had to admit, to his disappointment. He loved the taste of cock. There was something powerful about licking at it, about having it in your mouth, about controlling - and breaking the control of the person offering this to you. He'd always thought people who considered the giving role weak were just stupid. There was nothing that was more like surrender than getting head, and nothing more like victory than giving it.

He pushed Stéphane's sullied sweatpants past his hips, down, along with the boxershorts, over his straining cock, and leaned in, closing his mouth around the head, using his tongue to lick over the tip, tasting the flavour, smiling around the unfamiliar weight of it on his tongue. Above him, he could feel Stéphane leaning forward, catching himself, hands against the wall, so he wouldn't topple over and he could feel the tight restrain waver at first, and then break as he took it deeper, adding the touch of his hands, his fingers to the sensation of hot wetness surrounding his cock.

He swallowed a bit as Stéphane came, sounds like a mewl combined with a growl (half-cat, half-tiger) bouncing off the walls, echoing back and forth in the otherwise silent room, and he spit the rest out on the floor next to them, already getting up from his knees into a crouch, then into a stand. His legs had feeling again; his knees only threatened to give out, didn't actually. Stéphane was still breathing heavily, still leaning against the wall, and the stance gave Johnny the illusion of being caught in an embrace.

And then he was, because Stéphane opened his eyes, gave him a look and meshed their lips together, and for a second Johnny had the feeling he'd start another round before a tongue gently licked at the remnants of his own taste in his mouth and then let him go, released him. The arms stayed around him.

"Be glad Victor's already gone home," Stéphane dryly commented moments later, almost like he couldn't bear the complete silence around them; his voice was husky, and full of laughter.

"Might've been surprised by the onslaught of sudden torrential passion," Johnny rhymed together, not caring if he made a lot of sense.

Stéphane gave a snicker.

"Shut up," Johnny half-punched his shoulder. " _Seriously_."

 

~*~

 

Things didn't change. Really, they didn't. Except for the little fact that the newly founded training regime also included regular fucking and the occasional verbal sparring match. But that wasn't so bad. Johnny started to kind of enjoy it as it went on. The snarking. The fucking, he'd enjoyed from the beginning, he could openly admit to that. Nobody'd have believed him if he'd said otherwise anyway.

He didn't know though, if he knew Stéphane now, or not for a long time yet. And, if he was honest, he wasn't sure if he wanted to. Or cared. Not caring was easier; but easy was not always the best way to go, or so he'd learned. He might have to start, at some point.

Oh, who was he kidding.

 

~*~


End file.
